Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Behind schedule

Hey, look: Cheryl Cole is single. And I'm single. This seems perfect: the two of us could get together and chat about how much it sucks to be newly divorced. And then we could have sex. It's a win-win.

Actually, we could just skip the whole heart-to-heart chat, because young Cheryl's accent grates on my nerves somewhat. Nothing against our friends in the north, but it's just not the sort of accent that I would describe as sensual. Still, I'm willing to give it a shot. I'll drop her an e-mail; I'm sure everything will be grand.

In the meantime, life carries on much as usual in ol' Caerdydd. It's cold and rains seemingly nonstop but for short spells of agreeable weather designed by God to lure you out of the house so you can get rained on. God wants me to be cold and miserable. It will ease the disappointment when I get to heaven.

ME: "Ah dude, you don't look or sound anything like Cary Grant."
HIM: "Yeah, sorry about that. But, hey, it's warm up here. That's alright, isn't it?"

It's a situation conducive for watching lots and lots of NCIS and CSI and myriad Olympic sports with worryingly NASCAR-like tendencies. But theoretically I am still doing a masters degree, and should be using my super-awesome thinky skills on something a little more challenging than de-constructing CSI Miami's seemingly infinite flaws.

Have you ever watched that show? What the fuck, yo? It's all shiny and the camera never stays still and it appears to have been written by a 13-year-old. And does David Caruso even give a damn? I imagine he shows up and just sort of says whatever comes to his head while he's picking up his check. Then, when the show's writer gets home from school, he works it into that week's episode.

Also, have you ever noticed how those CSI dudes have to relearn things for every single case? Recently I watched an episode in which a chap spent a fair amount of time cracking open a fake skull with various blunt objects in order to determine what weapon had been used in an attack, as based on the blood-spatter patterns at the scene. Surely that's the sort of thing that would have come up before. You'd think it would just be written down somewhere, having been figured out back in 1953 what happens when you hit someone with a tire iron (a), rather than his needing to spend valuable taxpayer dollars smashing mannequin heads.

But I digress. The point is, I should be doing more with my time. Although my masters' project deadline is a solid six months away, I can feel it slowly creeping up on me. At night I will wake suddenly, apoplectic with rage over all the things I didn't do that day.

So, in an effort to live a happier, more productive life I am abandoning one of the few good things about my personality -- spontaneity -- and scheduling every aspect of my life. It's right there on my Google calendar, with updates sent to my phone: Ding, it's time for breakfast. Ding, it's time to catch the train. Ding, it's time to read. Ding, it's time to write such and such. Every aspect of my life carved out and regulated in a desperate attempt to feel that I am making something of myself. That I am not a soon-to-be-34-year-old train wreck.

The scheduling helps, to some extent. To be honest, though, I hate it. I despise it. But I can't tell you why; I've used up all my allotted blogging time.

(a) Tire irons are such popular weapons in crime stories but I cannot remember ever seeing an actual news story in which a tire iron was used. If TV is going to follow this route of using uncommon weapons, I want to see an episode of CSI in which a man is beaten with a truncheon.


Unknown said...

Thanks for including blogging in the schedule!

Anonymous said...

You're right.........lovely as she is, her accent would drive me to drink.